The Return
by Ruinous Age
Summary: Post-Brick. In which Combeferre comes to know how Enjolras survived.
1. Chapter 1: The Stranger

Hello! I'm new. I've been a little hesitant about posting anything since the quality of writing here is so high, but I thought I'd plow ahead anyway. The plot of this - should I go on - may be a little atypical, and I hope the characterizations don't offend. Any and all OCs are purely for plot purposes.

Enjoy. :)

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><p>For the second time in the span of ten minutes Combeferre instructed the serving girl how to place a damp cloth over Enjolras' brow. "If you feel he's become too warm," he said, speaking slowly and annunciating clearly, "I want you to dip this rag in water, then place it on his forehead. But wring it out first, mind you. Do you understand?"<p>

The serving girl bobbed her head. She was a plump, ruddy-cheeked maid, aged fifteen or sixteen, with an oblivious spirit. "Yes, Monsieur. I do the same for Madame whenever her head pains her."

"He hasn't got a headache, however," said Combeferre sharply, not at all like him. "He's been feverish all day. Do you know how to check him for fever? Use the back of your hand, not your palm. The back of the hand is more sensitive."

The serving girl drew herself up to her full height – not very tall – and squared her shoulders proudly. "Both of my brothers on the farm had the measles, Monsieur, and I nursed them through it. If there's one thing I know, it's fevers. But my! The storm's picked up. You'll have a hard time of it if you don't leave now, Monsieur."

Combeferre followed the girl's gaze to the window whose shutters were thrown back. The snow came down so heavily that he could see little but a falling wall of white – most unusual for Paris in December. "Perhaps I had better stay. I'll leave when the storm passes."

The serving girl, though she knew it was not her place to offer advice unsolicited, piped, "But, Monsieur, he's sleeping soundly now. And after all the thrashing he's been doing, he's likely to sleep for a good while. Long enough for you to return to your own rooms and collect a few things. I'd be most surprised if he woke in the meantime."

Combeferre nodded acknowledgement of this, but said anyway, "I'm unsure."

Between them, on the little bed, slept the object of their conversation, as pale as the sheets in spite of his fever, his skin clammy, the fire in the hearth echoing the glints of his golden hair, damp with sweat. He wore a linen shirt that was open to the waist and pulled back, so that most of his chest was bare. The white expanse was blemished by a constellation of rosy scar tissue. There were eight of them, the size of a franc, all grouped together on his breast. He would bear those marks forever, along with two of the bullets that had made them, now sealed deep within his flesh, too deep for any surgeon to remove. Lodged so close to his heart and lungs, Combeferre supposed they were what gave him the fevers, which came and went, never disappearing for very long.

Combeferre was glad Enjolras was sleeping easily, after a morning of frightening delirium, in which he had cast himself against the mattress, struggling violently in Combeferre's arms, as he sought to restrain him. He was so calm and still that Combeferre was disconcerted. He had watched Enjolras wither and suffer these many months. Now, having spent his strength, he was so very weak, he seemed like a wisp of dandelion seed. One stiff breeze might carry him away.

Combeferre pulled up the blankets that had fallen off his sleeping charge, obscuring the scars from the serving girl's view. He had not told her how Enjolras had won those scars, he hadn't thought it proper. The girl's mistress, and Enjolras' landlady, was a committed Republican who was aware of his involvement in the uprising. She knew of his wounds, yet could only have formed a vague guess about his escape. Combeferre himself was not entirely certain how Enjolras had survived that June night, though he had his hypotheses. In the smoke and confusion of the wineshop, with the clamor of gunshot all around, he had not witnessed Enjolras injured, nor had he seen him afterward, in the dawn, as he crawled through an alley to safety, bloodied and weapon-less. Enjolras, in conscious moments, had never told him, and he, sensing something, had declined to ask.

"He sleeps like one dead," he murmured over the silent form, giving utterance to his greatest fear.

The serving girl, with cheerful assuredness, disagreed. "He has the healing sleep about him, Monsieur."

Combeferre adjusted his eyeglasses and pulled on his overcoat. "It's just as well that I go. I haven't changed my clothes in three days, nor slept more than an hour. I'll be back with bedding and spend the night at his side. Yes," he mumbled, "that should do it. And I will rout out Joly, as well. He knows more than I. He's sure to come."

He rounded on the serving girl, his expression stern, his face exhausted. "If he wakes and asks for anything, you are to give it to him. Tell your mistress I will cover the cost of whatever must be purchased."

"Yes, Monsieur."

"But he will not ask for anything," Combeferre added, sighing. "He never does."

He went across the room to the chair against which his cane was propped. The air was colder near the window, and he could see his breath. He suddenly felt a sharp pain in his right leg. It was the old injury he had sustained in June, when a soldier's bullet shattered his thighbone into several pieces, crippling him. The wound had never properly healed: so repulsed had his surgeon been at the quantity of blood that he had fainted straightaway, and when he came to, his hands shook so badly that he mis-applied the splint.

Combeferre doubled over, gripping the limb, now a half-inch shorter than the other.

"Monsieur!" said the serving girl, alarmed.

Combeferre offered her a strained smile. "It's nothing," he said though gritted teeth. He rubbed the throbbing muscle until the pain had somewhat eased. "This room is very cold. Too cold. Keep the fire stoked. If your mistress values the life of her tenant, she will provide more fuel."

"But it is very dear, Monsieur."

"I'll pay. Don't fear. What is your name?"

"Phébé, Monsieur," the girl answered, her cheeks very ruddy.

"A Titan out of Greek mythology. Grandmother of Apollo and Artemis," Combeferre mused, taking up his cane.

"Pardon, Monsieur?"

He shook his head. "I shall return shortly. Watch him well." He looked at Enjolras sleeping with fond but weary eyes. He longed to stay, fearing the worst should he leave, even for a moment; but he knew, too, that it was foolish to carry on in his condition. Bodily, he was tired and hungry, having not eaten more than a few mouthfuls in three days; emotionally, he was spent.

"He will be all right," he told himself, "for a few hours." Still, he pulled himself only reluctantly through the door. He thanked the landlady in the parlor most sincerely for lending him her maid, then stepped into the blizzard, glancing back at Enjolras' window in hopes of seeing him through it. He saw only the ice collecting in strange shapes against the pane.

"Well," said Phébé, serving girl, former peasant, and now makeshift nurse. "You sleep nice and easy, Monsieur, while I build up your fire."

Enjolras was untroubled as she tied her shawl tightly around her shoulders and gathered up the bucket of coal, trying as much as possible to shovel coal into the fire without making any noise. Unluckily, the little scoop was made of tin, and it made a loud racket against the rolling coals and tin bucket. She finished her task quickly.

"There!" she said, wiping the smuts from her hands. "That should keep Monsieur Combeferre happy for a while. And you, too, Monsieur Enjolras. It's become very warm in here. I've never been in a room so warm, to be perfectly honest," she babbled, addressing Enjolras asleep on the bed. "I grew up in a three-room hut on my father's farm. One room was the kitchen – the baby always slept there, right next to the stove. Then, there was Maman and Papa's room, which they shared with Grandfather. And I slept with my four little brothers and sisters in the other room, all together in the one bed. It was crowded, but you were thankful for it come winter."

She bustled about, plumping his cushions, seeing whether his chamber pot was filled. "I've never had my own bed before. Now I do. It feels strange. Sometimes I feel like a princess. But then my feet get cold, and I wish little Charlot was there to lie across them, even though he always snored."

She continued to talk in this manner, sharing anecdotes from her life, aware that Enjolras could not hear her but little concerned by it. She liked to hear the sound of her own voice, which Madame complained gave her headaches. She stopped abruptly in the description of her father's farm, which she sorely missed, when she heard, above the howling wind, the sound of the front door slamming.

"It can't be Monsieur Combeferre so soon," she said.

In the foyer below there soon rose two voices, feminine and masculine. One was undoubtedly her mistress's, the other she didn't recognize. However, it was no business of her own – to make nosy about Madame's guests – unless, of course, Madame needed something done, such as tea served. Still, she shifted the coals with the poker, straining to understand a word or two of their conversation. Madame was older and lived alone, apart from her tenants, and while life was easy, it was also very often tedious for a young girl. Overseeing an invalid was as much excitement as she had had in many weeks. That he happened to be very beautiful, even as an invalid, caused her no small amount of blushes and her simple country heart to patter like a drum.

In a moment she heard footsteps on the stair, heavy and tramping. Then the door to the room creaked open, and in the doorway stood a hooded figure with snow on his shoulders and covered head. Phébé, who was not easily excitable, shrieked.

The hooded man stood like a statue, as if her shriek was no more to him than the wind outside.

"Phébé!" Madame called. The old woman appeared in the doorway behind the man, a little breathless from having run up the stairs. She was tall and narrow, with a nose like a hawk's and eyes like a doe's. Her dress was black and trimmed with crêpe, as befitted a widow. "What is it, child?" she said. "Are you harmed?"

"No, Madame," said Phébé with a hand at her throat. "He startled me, that's all. My God, I can feel my heart in here!"

"Come away, Phébé," Madame said.

"But, Madame, Monsieur Combeferre has ordered me to stay."

"That's quite all right. There's something needs doing in the kitchen."

"Yes, Madame," said Phébé a little sadly, for there seemed something exciting about to happen now with the arrival of the hooded stranger. He would not move as she passed him, instead standing stock-still. She was forced to squeeze against him to get out of the room, to which Madame responded with a disapproving cluck of the tongue. But the stranger, though Phébé brushed his arm, did not take notice of her, and the overawed serving girl thought he might be transfixed. In truth, he was half-frozen. He had been caught in the blowing storm for many hours, buffeted by the frigid winds, cut down by the sleet and ice. The heat of that warm room was so intense that his numb limbs had started to thaw immediately, and as the blood began to course back through his body, he felt intense pain that threatened to overwhelm him. Having felt nothing for so long, he suddenly felt everything.

In the hall, Phébé whispered, "Madame, who is he?"

"A friend of Monsieur Enjolras', or so he said. Truthfully, he seems a little incongruous when compared to Monsieur Enjolras' other friends." Madame replied, leading Phébé down the stairs.

"He looks mysterious," said the girl, entranced.

"You've been too long out of the country, child. He looks more like a bumpkin to me."

If Phébé had been allowed to stay a few moments longer in the room, she would have soon discovered that the stranger was exactly as Madame had said and not a character out of a Gothic romance. His great black cloak and hood hid his face and form and made him seem much larger than he was in actuality. He threw it off and no longer gave the impression of a brooding wanderer but that of a half-starved peasant.

In the huts and houses of the provinces there were hundreds and thousands who looked just like him – as many grim-faced men in shabby tunics girded at the waist with fraying cords, with rags around their legs, their feet in broken boots. And surely they, too, appeared as misery personified, with their bodies bent from burning brush and tilling soil and faces old before their time. The stranger, though he hadn't been born a peasant, had recently shared in their misery. He was dressed in their rags, had performed their labor, had lived their deprivations. Now, for a moment, he was the most pathetic of them all in the way he continued to stand there in the doorway. He trembled; snow melted off his hair; his troubled eyes peered out of cavernous sockets. He did not stare at the fire, which lent him its heat and revived him. He stared instead at the pale figure on the bed, so still he might have been a funerary monument. His eyes had alighted on him as soon as he opened the door.

The stranger's expression was half each elation and anguish, and he was so torn between the two emotions that he couldn't decide what to do.

After a minute's staring, he took his first tentative steps. He went to the bed. Enjolras turned his head in his sleep, as if aware of the foreign presence. This miniscule movement, little more than a twitch, had a great effect on the stranger. When he had inquired after Enjolras at the door, scarcely trusting to hope, the landlady had replied that he had not yet departed from this world, that he still lived, though was ill. But Enjolras had lain so tranquilly that the stranger was sure the woman was mistaken. In his joy he took the hand that hung over the side of the bed and clasped it to him.

"Enjolras," he whispered. "Enjolras, to know you live – I can't speak."

It was sentence straight from his soul, and as is often the case, it was meant to remain secret. He would not have spoken it had he thought its recipient might overhear.

Enjolras' eyes opened. Perhaps the shock of the stranger's cold flesh against his, which burned to the touch, had brought him from his slumber. Or else his voice had wakened him. In any case, Enjolras was now awake, and he looked at the stranger with pained, delirious eyes, and said, "Grantaire, I can't breathe."

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><p>If you'd like, please reviewcritique. I'd be grateful for any at all.


	2. Chapter 2: A Hard-Won Sleep

This has been a long time coming. Thank you so much to anyone who has reviewed, favorited, or followed. It means so much to me!

I hope you enjoy!

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><p>Mme. Bourdaloue sank into her usual chair by the fireplace, resting her aching feet on a plush little ottoman her late husband had purchased for her in Egypt, when, as one of Napoleon's lieutenants, he had taken part in that failed mission to seize the Orient. Phébé brought her a cup of tea. She sipped it delicately.<p>

Her rheumatism, affected by the cold, was flaring, and to distract herself from the pain, she reflected on the stranger she had recently let into her house. Like her maid, she, too, had mistaken him for someone else—although, being less fanciful than Phébé, a member of the police, not a character from a novel, which she did not read. His massive cloak had concealed his shabby clothes, and while he had borne no official paraphernalia, neither badge nor hat, she had feared he might be in disguise.

This was a common fear. Police raids had arrested dozens connected with the rebellion, and she had long thought, despite the precautions taken, that it was only a matter of time before her tenant Enjolras was arrested along with them. Though the King had spared most others who were arrested, advocated short sentences or their release, Enjolras had been a rebel leader, which meant he would likely be put to death. She had no doubts about this. There must always be at least one execution, done publicly, of course, to act as a deterrent to any future malcontents, who might otherwise lift up their heads and say, "It didn't work this time, but there's always tomorrow." But who knew if Enjolras would even live to see his trial? He was already very weak. Each day was uncertain. And this was in a warm feather bed with nourishing foods to eat and people to see to his care. There would be none of that in prison, where the squalor of a cell and the two-pronged cruelty of both guards and other prisoners would quickly kill him, unless authorities were determined to see him mount the scaffold; then he might be seen to and protected. But what an inglorious end for such a person! These were the things Mme. Bourdaloue fretted over at night, before drifting off to an uneasy sleep.

Fortunately, the stranger had called himself Antoine Grantaire, a name that had allayed some of these anxieties. In the back of her mind, she had recalled Enjolras, in better days, mentioning a certain Grantaire, a companion with a fondness for the bottle, a fondness that bordered on obsession. But drunkards weren't the sort she normally welcomed into her home. Still, even if he hadn't been a drinker, she'd had another reason not to allow him entrance: Combeferre, fearing, as she did, police spies, had strictly limited Enjolras' visitors. No one was to come up to see Enjolras without his approval first.

Although she was stern, with a spine like an iron rod, she was not entirely unmoved by pity. She had pitied Grantaire as he stood, all covered in snow, on her doorstep, nervously wringing his bare hands, the fingers of which were swollen with chilblains_. _As far as she could tell there was no liquor staining his breath. And yet she would never have let him in if he hadn't convinced her of his sincerity. The humble manner in which he had parsed his words, his lips blue with cold: "Please, Madame, does he live yet?" And the trepidation in his eyes, as he both feared and desired her answer—it spoke to his genuineness, a quality that was difficult to feign. Mme. Bourdaloue knew the precariousness of Enjolras' health demanded urgency. Suppose she sent Grantaire away, told him to return later in the week. He might come back only to find a closed coffin.

Naturally, she wondered if she had done rightly. Should she have asked more questions of Grantaire or demanded proof that he was who he said he was? Combeferre was not going to be pleased if he found a stranger in Enjolras' sickroom when he returned.

"I am mistress of this house," she said, preparing for the inevitable confrontation with Combeferre, "and I will answer to my actions. If he is a police spy, which I don't think he is, I'll welcome arrest gladly, as a collaborator."

No sooner had she said this than she heard an anguished shout from the floor above her. A voice cried out, "Madame, come quick! Come quick!"

Startled, she dropped her cup, splashing hot tea into her lap. Luckily, her skirts were thick and woolen, and she was only a little burned. The cup rolled off her knees and broke against the floor. As quickly as she could manage, for her rheumatism made movement difficult, she climbed the stairs. Having rushed from the kitchen, Phébé's hands were dusty with flour. She pattered impatiently behind her mistress, eager to see what was wrong.

This was the sight they came upon: Grantaire crouched on his heels, leaning against the bed as Enjolras slumped into his arms, his head lolling against Grantaire's chest. It was as though he had fallen and Grantaire had caught him. His complexion was waxy and his eyes, opened wide, were like a blind man's—fixed on no point in particular. He did not blink. Down his chin and chest was a mess of blood, clotted around the corners of his lips like strawberry jam.

The scene had an air of Greek tragedy. Achilles supporting the slain Patroclus. Mme. Bourdaloue did not make the classical allusion; she did not know it. But she did think she stared at a dead man. Her hand went to her throat, and she was forced to summon the strength of all her years to maintain her composure. Phébé gave a little squeak; tears formed under her eyelids, threatening to overflow.

"Help him," said Grantaire, as soon as he became aware of their presence. "He is choking on his blood!"

"He's alive?" said Mme. Bourdaloue, too amazed to say anything else; at this moment Enjolras resembled a corpse.

Enjolras wheezed a little just then. His breath burbled as though it came from under water. More blood foamed about his lips. His skin was purplish.

"Help him," Grantaire repeated. "He's too hot. He's suffocating! We need to cool him down."

"Phébé, fetch some water!" Mme. Bourdaloue ordered. The girl went running. Then to Grantaire she said, "Perhaps you should put him back on the bed."

"He fell." Grantaire remained crouching with Enjolras in his arms. "He tried to get up and he fell. This time I've caught him." Grantaire spoke like one in a daze.

"Monsieur! He's dying. Put him on the bed."

Grantaire snapped wild eyes on her. Her rebuke shook him, and he nodded dumbly. He stood with some difficulty, lifting Enjolras and depositing him on the mattress.

Enjolras suddenly shut his eyes. His body jerked as though jolted by an electric current. He whimpered a little, almost wearily, for his strength was down to its last reserves. He could not—and he knew it—fight this blistering fever for long.

"Grantaire," he whispered, gasping for air. "It'll pass, it'll pass." But whether he meant the fever or his own ebbing life Grantaire didn't know.

"Where is that damned maid?" Grantaire shouted. "He'll die for her dawdling!"

Mme. Bourdaloue was at the window, opening the shutters and cracking the pane. "For God's sake, Monsieur!" she cried. "Phébé's a child. Take that cloth over there and wet his forehead with it. I'll bring down the fire. This room is stifling."

There wasn't much water left in the pitcher on Enjolras' end table. Grantaire soaked the rag Combeferre had used in his demonstration to Phébé earlier and gently smoothed it over Enjolras' skin, wiping away the sweat and crusted blood. He wasn't used to being gentle. He didn't have Combeferre's soft physician's hands. His were knotty and calloused, for he had spent the last six months doing farm labor in the provinces—and that was back-breaking work, such as university students, like he used to be, weren't accustomed to performing. Even so, he was tender with Enjolras. He swabbed his neck and throat and even his chest. Enjolras continued to breathe with great difficulty. When he coughed, the blood was pinker, less red, diluted with phlegm and saliva.

He attempted to speak, mouthing the words. His voice had almost entirely failed.

Grantaire shushed him. "Be still," he said. "Rest. Don't tire yourself, René."

Grantaire had never used Enjolras' Christian name before. He felt shy about using it now. Mme. Bourdaloue looked tenderly at him. He realized he was crying as two large tears slid to the tip of his chin. It was too much. What rest could a person suffering like Enjolras was suffering find except in death? Here he had come, only to find Enjolras clinging to the thinnest thread of life. It might have been better to arrive and find him already dead. Grantaire had seen Enjolras die once. He could not bear to see it happen again.

His crying embarrassed him. He shaded his eyes with his palm. When Mme. Bourdaloue kindly took the rag from him and began washing Enjolras' face, he let her, feeling powerless to act. He was sober and wished he wasn't. Drink had always been his escape from reality, though he had tried to give it up. Now, with reality washing in, he thought he might drown for want of it, but there was none to be had.

Phébé reappeared in the doorway carrying a copper basin piled with snow.

"There was no water in the kitchen. I used the last of it for the baking," she said, trembling with cold. The poor girl had gone out in the blizzard to collect snow! "I couldn't work the pump. It's covered in ice."

"You're frozen through, child!" Mme. Bourdaloue exclaimed. "Come by the fire before you catch pneumonia!"

Sniffling, Phébé placed herself and the basin in front of the fireplace. The basin was only half-filled. Grantaire looked at it and suddenly had an idea. He had seen in the countryside a very ill child with a fever similar to Enjolras' whose mother had bathed him in cool water to bring his fever down. But there was not enough snow in the basin to bathe Enjolras once it melted down. They would need more water. Shrugging off his helplessness, Grantaire asked for a bucket. Mme. Bourdaloue, slightly perplexed, told him to take the one from the kitchen.

Grantaire dashed from Enjolras' side but not before bending low to his ear, lips almost touching, and whispering, "Don't leave me just yet."

Then he was gone.

The blizzard hit him like a slap. He staggered backward, holding the wooden bucket to his abdomen. The wind cut through his thin tunic, for he had forgotten his cloak on the floor of Enjolras' room. He pushed against the icy gale, feeling as though the breath had been snatched from his lungs. Snow crystals adhered to his hair and face and arms and legs, and the tears that had not yet dried froze solid on his skin.

The pump, which provided fresh water to all the houses on the block, was located at the end of the street on a small roundabout built up with stones. The pump's long iron handle was indeed coated with ice so thick it would not budge. The only thing to do was to break the ice. Grantaire put the bucket down under the spout, furrowing a little hollow for it in the drifting snow. He placed one hand over the other on the handle and pressed down with all his might. The iron was so cold that at first touch Grantaire felt a burning sensation. The handle did not move. Grantaire tried again, with greater strength, but he struggled to maintain his balance on the icy cobblestones. He slipped and fell. Now he was so cold that he was nearly numb, and he did not immediately feel as the skin from the palm gripping the handle tore away, completely, like hide ripped from a slaughtered cow. The pain was immense. Blood rolled down his wrist from his flayed palm, and tears anew sprang to his eyes. He wrenched himself up. He could not dwell on his injury for long. There was nothing for it but to stand and have another go at the pump.

He used his bloody palm so that he would not lose the skin from his remaining good hand. He bit his lip and pushed down, grunting, until a fracture appeared in the ice and the handle moved a little. He pushed down again and again; the ice fell away in little sheets. Slowly, slowly, a thin stream of water trickled from the spout, for the water below ground was not frozen. With more effort, Grantaire managed to produce a verifiable gush, which soon filled the bucket.

He was halfway to the house when he stumbled. All feeling was lost from his feet and they were like wooden blocks that he kicked around. The bucket knocked against his thigh, spilling half its contents down his hip and leg. Grantaire bore this frustration silently, for he was too cold and tired to shout aloud. With singled-minded determination he returned to the pump and refilled the bucket. He thought even if his legs failed him that he would crawl back to the house on his hands and knees, pushing the bucket through the street with his nose, before he gave up.

He was half dead himself when he finally made his way back to Enjolras' room. His every muscle screamed, and he barely had use of his limbs. As they thawed, the pain increased tenfold. Yet these things were as nothing to him. He emptied the bucket into the copper basin, which now sloshed full. Little bits of unmelted snow floated to the top.

"Your hand!" Mme. Bourdaloue cried.

"It's nothing," Grantaire said. But Mme. Bourdaloue insisted on binding it with her handkerchief.

"We must strip him and bathe him," he said. "There's no time to lose."

"This is not a scene fit for a young girl," Mme. Bourdaloue muttered, and she ordered Phébé to return to the kitchen and finish her baking.

With tenderness usually reserved for babies they removed Enjolras' nightshirt. He was naked on the coverlet. Mme. Bourdaloue accepted his masculine nudity with barely a blush, but Grantaire was more unsettled. He would not look at Enjolras except at his face. Enjolras was delirious, quiet but fitful; he had no awareness that he was naked, nor that Grantaire and his landlady stood around him. He wandered lost in fever dreams.

Enjolras' body was foreign to Grantaire, which is why it bothered him to look at it. It wasn't that he had never seen a naked body before; he had seen many throughout his life, in brothels and the back halls of barrooms. But Enjolras was not like Grantaire, nor was he like any other man Grantaire had ever seen or met. He did not know, as far as Grantaire could surmise, earthly desires. He existed above that. Grantaire was about as fleshy as a person could be, a man who'd lived only for taste and touch and sensation until very recently. But Enjolras had lived for ideas and action. Looking at his preternaturally beautiful body, as beautiful as any that had ever been, marked with signs of suffering, none greater than the archipelago of scars on his chest, seemed like a violation. Who else since his infancy had ever beheld Enjolras so exposed? For Grantaire, Enjolras' nakedness came with the realization that he was only human. The pedestal Grantaire had placed him on was leveled momentarily, and he was ashamed of the feelings this thought awoke in him.

The basin was not large enough to sit Enjolras in, so Grantaire held him as Mme. Bourdaloue dipped his limbs one by one into the cold water and rubbed down his burning skin with a rag.

"Are you certain this will work?" she asked.

"No," Grantaire said, "but I have seen it work in the past. He feels slightly cooler to me."

Miraculously, Enjolras' breathing grew a little more even. They continued to bathe him for another half hour, until Mme. Bourdaloue announced the danger to be past. Enjolras was peaceful, sleeping again. Grantaire dried him off and redressed him and put him back in bed.

"I should like to speak to him when he wakes," he said.

"He is never conscious for very long," Mme. Bourdaloue sighed. "These fevers come and go. We were lucky today."

"May I keep watch over him?"

Mme. Bourdaloue nodded her consent.

Grantaire shook as he went to retrieve a chair and set it next to the bed. He mistook the cause of his shaking as joy at having pulled Enjolras from the brink of death. Over this he was ecstatic. He made the mistake of glancing at his injured hand, which had bled through its handkerchief bandage; he had not noticed the blood dripping onto the floorboards. Suddenly he was very dizzy. The strain of his long journey and the effects of cold and the lack of food, for he could not remember the last time he'd eaten, struck him all at once. The strength he had put to Enjolras' needs was utterly spent. He blinked and saw the floorboards rushing toward him. A loud thud and he was out like a candle that has burned to the end of its wick.


End file.
